Wayward Wendy
by OWLSCRATCH
Summary: Wendy Halifax is smart, resolute, only sometimes crazy and puts up with a lot: school, Ferris Bueller, parents, Ferris Bueller, friends, Ferris Bueller. Oh, and sulky, sullen, hypochondriacal Cameron Frye. She decides to play hooky with the boys and what follows hereafter will prove to be the best day of her life. Rated for language. Cameron/OC
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! I'm taking a step away from action, sci-fi and adventure for a moment to try something new. I don't want to rattle off with any taxing introductions. I just want to say that I am forever in love with Ferris Bueller's Day Off and I am sad to see such a scarce amount of fiction about the movie. But, here I am, bearing a story to whoever wants to read it. So, enjoy! Reviews are great! (P.S. I haven't written in first person POV in a _long_ time, so bear with me)**

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I can feel the air around my head physically tremble from the rattle of my alarm clock, strangely mistaken without its continuous brassy clank. Dad always tells me that the "entrails" must be "amiss", something about the improper alignment of the escapement wheel and the anchor. My rebuttal is always some snarky, smart remark about how the alarm clock is inanimate and doesn't have tangible insides like a human. "It's a $10 alarm clock, dad," to which he heaves a weary sigh and begins a long and grueling (on my part) lecture. I suppose this comes at the price of being the daughter of an English teacher with some other degree that allows him to be as _inquisitive_ as he wants.

Sighing, I throw a hand out towards the dresser, groping for the noisy nugget of metal. Oh, if only I could find that snooze button through my many layers of frustration and early morning exhaustion. I finally manage to silence the clock after slapping around the dresser and breathe one more slobbery, open-mouthed groan of defeat into my closure pillow. I roll out from beneath the printed duvet and sit with my legs hanging off the edge of the bed. I know that if my butt doesn't leave the mattress in exactly seven and a half minutes, my mother will be clambering up the stairs cracking together flat-bottomed pans.

I crawl back onto the eiderdown and steady myself with one hand gripping the mast at the head of the bed. The flat of my hand snaps against the curling, flocked wallpaper as I slam on the wall separating my brother and I. "Get up! Mom'll be coming any minute now!"

Okay, that was a lie. We still have seven minutes, fifteen seconds and counting. But he'd never wake up if I would've told him that. And, as if on cue, the bed springs grate and I think I can hear my brother hit the hardwood floor. There's a pained groan. Face first, I deem. I can't help but let out a disgusting snort of laughter.

Doug and I are fraternal twins. He's a minute and 36 seconds older than me, although, I might as well be the older one. I laugh, cuss and poke fun all of the time because it's my nature, but I know when to pull on my seasoned, mature face and big girl pants when things get really heavy. Doug, on the other hand, can't tell a jesting tone from a grave, grandma's-heart-rived-in-her-chest tone. And, let me tell you, it has gotten him into a lot of trouble.

The two of us are different in a handful of ways. I get straight A's all across the board while he seems to settle for C's and the occasional D+ on his report card. School is a touchy subject for him and while he claims to care about his education, I have yet to see him pick up a book when he's not in school. I'll occasionally jostle him with cuss words and shove his grades down his throat, to which he gets violent and leaves me with bruises and bedside scars. You think I would've learned from the first time he stomped on my foot and broke two of my toes with his logger boots.

I may have a shitload of terrible things to say about Doug, but I will give him props. He is a charmer. His curtained ash blonde hair attracts throngs of girls daily, hanging off of his arm or gazing with starry eyes from behind their locker doors. He gets those lovely locks from my mom. I, on the other hand, have a wavy mane of one million and one different shades of brown that reaches the small of my back. Courtesy of the wonderful Professor Jack Halifax. However, the only physical trait Doug and I seem to share is our incredibly vivid hazel eyes. But aside from that, some kids at school very well assume we've gone steady with one another. How many times can I eject burnt pot roast and say that that is down right disgusting?

My phone rings, pulling my brain from the clouds, back down into my head and between my eyes. Yes, it took a lot of begging on my part, but I finally have my own personal telephone number. The main argument was privacy, aka, the wretched excuse for a sibling in the next room over.

I stand from the mattress and the bonnell springs in the bed squeak. The phone is in my hand in an instant, face pressed to the receiver and lips inches from the mouthpiece. "This is Wendy speaking..."

"Good morning, Wendy Speaking."

I sigh, picking up the entire phone set and bringing it with me to the window. "What could you possibly want at 7:30 in the morning?" I part the gauzy curtains and peek out of the window at the house directly across the street. There's no movement from the drapes, so I open my curtains to their full width and tie them up at the sides of the window.

"Hm, is that the sound of curtains being drawn?" Ferris asks sarcastically. Suddenly, from across the street, he rips open his drapes and draws the blinds to reveal himself in a bathrobe with a serious case of bedhead. "I see that I'm correct, Miss Wendy Speaking. And might I say, you look _ravishing_ this morning."

Frowning, I look down at my large, wrinkled t-shirt and my tiniest pair of filigree-like panties. I glare at Ferris through my mangled fringe, shifting the phone to my shoulder and holding it steady with my ear. "I repeat, what could you possibly want at 7:30 in the morning?"

"I think you mean, what could I possibly _not_ want at 7:30 in the morning?"

"What. Do. You. Want."

"Jesus, put some ice cubes down those skivvies and chill out, Wen."

I move to the dresser against the wall, out of view from the window, and sift through camisoles and scratchy slips. "I have to get ready for school, Ferris." Pressed from the night before, I tug on a pair of riveted jeans that don't seem to fit correctly. I move into full view of the silver glass mirror behind the bedroom door and run a hand down my suddenly bulging haunches. I have hips, but where did those things come from?

"See, that's where you're wrong."

By now I have moved back to sieving through the drawer, stopping at Ferris' reply. I put my weight onto one foot and pop a hip outward, my hand fixing me to the top of the dresser. "What are you talking about, Bueller?"

"Hooky."

"No," I reply, shaking my head.

"There's a quiz on consumer education," he sing-songs tonelessly. "Problem set in calculus, seat change in physics..."

"No."

"C'mon, Louise!"

If there is one thing I cannot stand, it's being called by my middle name. Call me Wendy. Call me Wen. Hell, call me Halifax. I don't mind the last name. But one thing that I have polished from shit and made crystal fucking clear is that no one calls me Louise, ever. Even Doug knows not to call me Louise. Although, it was kind of an even exchange, so long as I don't utter the name 'Douglas' for as long as I live.

"You listen here, _Bueller_," I spit into the mouthpiece.

"_No one calls me Louise_, blah blah blah, okay, I'm sorry. Okay? I'm sorry." He sounds bored and preoccupied.

"Fuck you, Ferris." Then I promptly hang up the phone and glance at the clock. 7:32. Okay. Mom will be up here in five minutes to check on me and if I'm not hauling ass, she'll be hauling ass. Mine.

I reach the closet when the jeans really start to grow uncomfortable and cut into my sides like pleats. I unearth a pair of high-waisted khaki shorts in a pile of dirty (or clean?) clothes and change into them. The hem and final button at the top touch the skin above my belly button, the sudden compression of my stomach is something to ease into. I peel off my t-shirt and reach for a ruled, off-the-shoulder blouse when the phone rings again.

"What?" I ask.

Who else could be on the receiving end of my frustration other than Ferris Bueller? "You hurt my feelings," he says nonchalantly, still preoccupied with something else. "I'd like a written apology in my mailbox no later than 7:40."

"Ferris, _stop calling me_."

"Hooky?"

"_No_."

"Come _on_, Wen!"

"We have the goddamn weekend, Ferris! Besides, you already have a shitload of absences."

"Not anymore." His tone is crafty and ten kinds of wicked. I don't want to know what he means. "Today's gonna be huge. I can feel it."

I hip-check a shelf back into the dresser and roll my eyes. "Yeah, right. You say that every time."

"And I'm _right_ every time."

"Sorry, Ferris, presentation on kinematics. I'm sitting this one out."

He outwardly sighs. I look out of the window and, sure enough, he's pouting. "Can you hear my heart breaking, Wen?"

"Oh, can it, Ferris."

"Wendy—"

"Phone jack," I tease, voice flat as flouder.

Ferris Bueller, always overdone and exaggerating, gasps loud and his breath crackles in the receiver. "You wouldn't."

So, I hang up the phone and unplug the jack from the wall. Grinning, I pick up the figured blouse and pull it over my head, tucking the knitted wool into my shorts and curling a belt through the loops. Ferris Bueller, you have met your maker.

I move to tidy the bedding when the worst, cyclic sound rips through the air. It feels like my eardrums are being popped and pared with utility knives. I'm positive that I'd much rather be banded to a table and sit through hours of listening to government principles and Chinese water torture. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what high school shithead is responsible for this. Turning my head, I see Ferris Bueller, disheveled, somehow poised on the edge of his window and blowing into his clarinet. That dirty, filthy, scheming son of a bitch.

I open the casement window and lean on the sill. "Okay! Fever. Bad enough, but not bad enough for a visit to the doctor's office. Muscle aches, chills, _insane_ irritability. Don't have time for fake sweats or the imagination to make up loony hallucinations. I'll throw on a jogging suit and get back into bed. Now you had better chuck that fucking clarinet or you can forget about our friendship, Bueller!" I close the window, only to return shortly afterward to pull it open again. "You owe me breakfast! Try not to spit in it!" I shut the window and pull the curtains closed. One thing I cannot stand about Ferris Bueller is his persistence.

I chance a look in the clock's direction. 7:36. Shit.

The shorts and barred blouse somehow end up on the upholstered chair in the corner of the room. I sift through the third shelf in my dresser and quickly pull on jogging pants and a woven jumper over my panties and t-shirt. 7:37. Shit! Shit! Shit! I'm just able to pull the duvet to my chin when my mother bursts through the door.

"What are you still doing in bed?"

I groan and roll over to face her. "Everything... hurts."

She sits beside me on the eiderdown and puts the back of her hand to my forehead. Shit. "You don't feel warm." Shit!

"That's because I'm freezing." I pull on the bedding and it envelops me in its warmth. "So, so _cold_, mommy."

Her green eyes narrow to leery, suspicious rifts. "I'm getting the thermometer from the downstairs bathroom."

"Okay," I say, weary voice concealing my absolute terror for the woman weilding a spatula. She leaves the room without closing the door behind herself. Okay. One minute window to run to the bathroom and make this a credible fever. Her spool heels clack on the staircase and once I hear them break ground on the baked clay tiles downstairs, I bolt for the bathroom across the hall.

I adjust the running tap and splash my face with hot water until the burning becomes unbearable. A mouthful of scalding water (I think my hard palate is blistering...), necklace of moisture around my throat, mist of hot water on the chest and frontal hairline. There's just enough time to crawl back into bed with a slightly pained expression on my face.

My mother comes into the bedroom, followed by my concerned father. Mom is still grasping the spatula and a themometer while dad adjusts his horn-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose. He sits beside me on the bed and takes my flushed, flustered face into his calloused hands, tucking a tress of "sweaty" hair behind my ear.

He puts a hand to my head and furrows his eyebrows. Damn. If anyone knows me, it's my father. "I don't know, Janice. She feels warm to me."

The fuck—?

I shake my head out of his grasp, mussy mane dampening the closure pillow. "No, no. I'm cold." If he's going to be a dumb fuck, I am most definitely going to take advantage of this.

Mom purses her lips, suspicion all over her face. She pops a hip and holds out the thermometer. "Open."

I rip the thermometer from her hand and plug it between my lips while my mouth is still hot. My dad takes it and observes the readings, mom sneering over his shoulder. "100.1," he says. "That's not good. Fever for sure."

"Sleep," I beg, pulling the printed duvet over my head. "Go to work. I'll be okay."

Mom shoots a look to my dad that reads disbelief and irritation, yet uncertainty. I know that she doesn't want to believe that I'm sick, but the way her doe eyes regard me — folded tight into the dendritic duvet, clinging to its heat — makes me almost believe otherwise. My parents look to each other and go out into the hallway where I hear scraps of their conversation.

"I don't believe this for one _second_, Jack."

"You saw the reading on the thermometer. And she's _sweating_ for Christ's sake!"

"She wasn't _sweating_ two minutes ago!"

"'Cause she's fakin'," another voice says through a mouthful of breakfast. Fucking Doug. _Fucking_ Doug.

There's a moment of cool, yet strangely formal silence before I hear my dad speak again. "I want her to stay home."

"What!" And that masculine, leonine growling does _not_ come from my mom.

All of a sudden, the door swings ajar on its split hinge and Doug is running straight for my bed in a blur of tartan and carded wool. I rise slightly to protest his intrusion, but he holds me down to the linens with one hand on my throat, the other slapped to my forehead. "She's fakin'! This isn't sweat! It's water!"

Soggy shreds of his breakfast land on my face, so I spit a glob of saliva right between his eyes, hoping to get him to release his hold on my windpipe. His anger deepens and it seems that I have bought a one way ticket to my grave. He'd make me buy my own shovel and dig, of course. I scream as his grip on my throat tightens, kicking my legs out, thrashing my limbs, anything to get this irritable douche bag off of me. "DOUG—" I choke out, "—LAS, you—" I slap at his face, fingers curling around wispy strands of curtained hair. "—ugly fuck! Get off me! Mom! Dad!"

Did I mention that we don't get along? _At all_. If I was on fire, he'd water mom's garden before putting out the flames on my skin. At least he'd do that, I wouldn't even spit on the bastard.

"Wendy, you gross bitch!" Mom swats at his spine and shoulder blades with her spatula until he releases his hold on me. His grip wasn't tight enough to suffocate me, just to throttle me senseless until I told the truth. That fucktard. "I'll bet that she's fully dressed under there! School clothes, shoes and all!" Dad filches Doug's ear between his fingers and advertently gets him to leave the room.

"Wendy Louise, I've had enough of this!" Mom rips the eiderdown from my body and sighs at my jogging pants, socks and knitted jumper.

Scowling, I snatch the bedding back into my fist. "What did you expect to see, mom? A bikini and a Shirley Temple?" I curl into the gritty fabric of the jumper and pull the duvet back up to my chin. In all honesty, my ass is burning up. Perspiration from my feet has made my socks one hundred pounds heavier. To make my case seem more believable, I shed a few tears and point towards the door. "Doug hurt me! I'm cold and pained and _sick_! Make him say sorry!"

She glares, nice, acute and frigid. "Take off that jumper, bathe in lukewarm water and break a few ice packs."

I roll my eyes and nod as she leaves the room. Can't live with the woman, can't seem to make a decent meal without her.

Dad wipes away the moisture from my face with the pad of his thumb and looks at me with an apathetic smile. I'm convinced that he's completely sold until that smile turns into a radiant grin. "You help me with grade nine essays and mom doesn't have to know a thing."

"What?"

But he just winks, plants a kiss atop my head and leaves the room with his cologne hampering my breathing. The man knows me like the back of his hand. I really am my father's child.

That might have not blown over well with dipshit Doug and my father. But, at least my mom was halfway sold on it. Alas, years and years of being friends with Ferris Bueller has indefinitely improved my acting talent. 7:45. I prune the woven jumper from my sticky skin and toss it into the wicker basket by the window. When I hear no movement from outside the door, I plug the phone jack back into the wall and dial Ferris' telephone number. He picks up after two rings.

"Well?"

"You had better have one hell of a day planned, Bueller."

"Did you suddenly forget who you're talking to?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry for the long wait! I had this written, but I went back in and revised it a bunch of times. Remember, this is my first time in a long time writing in first person POV, so this is extremely difficult for me to capture a personality through Wendy's eyes/mind/body. Anyway, thank you so much for the reviews and alerts! You guys are amazing!**

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"_Oh, oh, Sheila. Let me love you till the morning comes. Oh, oh, Sheila. You know I want to be the only one..._"

The bathroom is warm, dimly lit with tealight candles and smells of lovely rose oil. I tie my hair up at crown of my head and brush back fibers of ochre, chestnut and russet from my brow. The waffle weave bathrobe drops from my body and I stand in front of the bathtub, feeling the warmth of the glassy, foaming water with my toes. When I step in, I glide slightly on the hyaline surface of the bottom of the tub and catch myself on the hollow in the wall. An entire neckband of indecencies echoes through the house and I massage the front sole of my left foot. This is why I only take baths once in a while, they're damn deadly if anything.

I finally manage to lower myself into the pool of spumy, bubbling water without slipping again. Once my entire body is submerged, I relax my muscles against the heat of the frothy bubbles and press my back to the edge of the bathtub, bare bottom touching the porcelain base. As dangerous as they are, I'd take a bubble bath any day over going to school with idiots.

"_Oh, baby, it's plain to see. That you're qualified to fill your needs..._" I bellow, cupping handfuls of water and bubbles and lathering the olive skin of my legs. "_I think you threw an oath on me. Honey, baby, just you wait and see._"

After fifteen minutes, the cordless phone rings from the edge of the bathtub. Sighing, because _God damn everything_ I already know who the asshole is on the other line. I pick up the phone and put it to my ear. I've already had so much of Ferris Bueller today that I'm actually considering staying in the bathtub until my parents and brother come home. However, his promise of a 'fucking awesome, mind-blowing' day is way too hard to pass up. I didn't skip school, get choked out and drooled on by my dipshit brother just to sit on porcelain all day long.

"_And we say, oh, oh, Sheila_," I coo into the mouthpiece.

"_Let me love you till the morning comes_," he sings to the receiver, his voice deep and warbling.

I laugh heartily and adjust my position in the tub of water. "Give me another fifteen minutes. I've decided to take a bath," I say, flicking a handful of bubbles into the air.

"Room for one more?"

"Ever the charmer, Ferris," I reply dramatically, placing a hand over my bosom. "But, _poor, poor_ Sloane. What'll you tell her?"

He chuckles and I can tell that my act has him grinning pearls. "She doesn't have to know a thing."

Ferris and I have always joked around like this. When we first met each other in middle school, there was an immediate connection because we understood each other's sense and extent of humor. As juvenile and cliché as it sounds, it was friendship at first sight and friendship at its best. Cameron Frye (sullen, anxious sidekick to Ferris), on the other hand, had an extremely hard time warming up to my (as he calls it) "infantile", "immature" — clearly, he's been paying too much attention in my father's AP senior English class — "buffoonery". Eventually, my spirit grew on him and his morose, rain cloud of a personality grew on me.

Believe me, I have no fucking clue how that happened.

Just because he's always got shrapnel tearing through his ass doesn't mean that he gets off without my constant jeering. I always joke with him because he just responds so much more forcibly than necessary. Once, I told him that I was gonna marry him when we were older because we're countering forces and those things are supposed to attract. Right? I said that knowing that he would either A) change the subject or B) start stuttering and sweating through his jersey like a fool. But, what I did not expect him to do was C) bolt away on foot to his car and trip over poorly pruned hedges. I really love the guy, but Jesus H. Christ, he is fistful and then some.

I shake my head. "You sure are a piece of work, Bueller."

"A work of _art_."

"See you in fifteen minutes," I say, hanging up the phone.

It takes five minutes to blot myself dry, split the curtains, blow out the candles and dress in those khaki shorts, ruled blouse and belt. But then I decide, screw it, if we're going out and this day is going to be 'fucking awesome', I'm gonna look fucking awesome. So I peel off those clothes — mostly because they remind me of my pesky mother and school, who likes that? — and slip into a pair of wine red shorts and a white v-neck with a jean jacket and a black infinity scarf. I run a brush through the large billows in my hair and part it with the bristles at the top of my temple. Satisfied, I pull on a pair of shin-high boots, grab my sling bag from my bedroom and just because I'm a filthy, crafty, conniving, 'gross bitch', I spit a small, frothy wad of saliva onto Doug's bed and conceal it beneath one of his neck pillows. Ha fucking ha.

I lock the door on my way out of the house and cross the street to Ferris' greensward where he lay supine on a lawn chair. He tips down his sunglasses and locks eyes with me, observing my upright form. "Well?" he says.

"_Well_ what?"

"I could use some company."

"You could _use_ a brain."

"Oh, ouch, Wen. That hurt."

"When you were dropped on your head?"

"Yikes. That's a zero on the scoreboard for Ferris Bueller."

"Zero? Are you counting the number of brain cells you have left?"

Ferris just chuckles and lies back onto the chair. I can't tell if he's looking at me or the sky through his sunglasses. "Strip down and lotion up!" he shouts, grabbing a bottle of sun screen from the table adjacent and holding it out to me.

I shrug my shoulders nonchalantly, placing my sling bag on the lawn beside the empty chair. The shoes come off first, everything else just gets tossed into a messy pile on the sod until I'm left in a bandeau and matching panties. I grab my sunglasses from the sling bag and the sun screen from Ferris' grasp, relaxing against the grating material of the bolster on the lawn chair. "Nice view, eh?" I ask, knowing that Ferris' eyes are roaming my skin.

"Sure is," he drawls from beside me, taking a long swig of his lemonade. He looks indefinitely to the sky and I look at my skin, deciding that a gentle tint on the olive plane couldn't hurt, so I place the sun screen beside my sling bag on the lawn. Ferris hands me his sweating glass of lemonade and I take a small sip before handing it back.

A comforting silence ornaments the sward like a duvet of sorts, one with dendritic designs, feathery insides, and no sibling DNA on it. I touch my throat and thinking about Doug's hand around my neck doesn't make me want to spit on his bedding anymore, it just makes me want to shit in his pillow case.

"Is Cameron tagging along on this escapade?" I ask.

Ferris picks up the cordless phone on the table, dials a number and puts the receiver to his ear. "Hold that thought."

I roll my eyes and sneak a sip of lemonade from the cup on the table between us. Cameron is an easy boy to read. I already know from years of friendship that he's not sick and he's lying in bed with the eiderdown pulled tight over his head.

"Cameron!" Ferris yips into the mouthpiece. "What's happening?" There's a pause for Cameron's response. "How do you feel?"

I lie back onto the lawn chair (which is irritating and feels strangely clad in homespun) and put the back of my hand to my forehead. My tongue lolls lazily across my bottom lip and a small rivulet of saliva rills from the corner of my mouth. Yes, I'm taking jabs at Cameron and his extravagant exaggerations. He's an easy target and I'm an ass, so it's a perfect match.

"Yes, Wendy's here. Yes, she's making fun of you." Ferris puts his hand on the mouthpiece and turns to me. "He says to knock it off."

I put my hands up defensively.

"Is your mother in the room?" Another pause. "I'm taking the day off, come on over." Another pause. "That's all in your head. Come over."

I get up from my spot and squeeze in beside Ferris on the rough-hewn material of the bolster on his own chair. He moves the phone to the other ear and holds it outward, allowing me more room to press my ear to the side of the receiver. There is still no space at the end of the lawn chair for both of our gangling legs, so I cross mine and throw them atop Ferris'.

"I feel like shit," Cameron's voice crunches in the receiver like cellophane wrap. "I can't go anywhere."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Ferris replies. "Now come on over and pick us up."

"Wendy has a car."

"Yes, my dear Cameron Frye, but my car is a piece of shit and herein lies the problem."

"Ferris says my car is shit too. Two equally shitty cars. I don't see the problem in driving yours."

"Ha! I pray for what is to come hereafter if I have to deal with your quick wit again. You see, my dear Cameron Frye, your car may be shit, but my piece of shit is shittier tenfold."

"But—"

"There is duct tape on the windshield for fuck's sake, Cameron! Now get your hypochondriacal ass out of bed and come pick us u—He hung up."

Ferris shrugs, dropping the phone into my lap and folding his arms behind his head. "Call him back."

So, I comply and punch in Cameron's phone number. A continuous, low hum crackles the line and I press the receiver to my ear when Cameron picks up on the other end. "Cameron, love? It's Wendy," I say. My tone is sweet yet sly, I can feel Cameron's general air of malaise through the receiver.

"Hey, Wen," he replies wearily.

Ferris presses his ear against the back of the phone. "I'm sorry that I screamed at you."

"That's okay."

I lift my shades to wink at Ferris, then mouth 'piece of cake' into the mouthpiece. "Come out with us, Cameron. Please?"

"Oh, please. You two only need a ride."

Ferris grunts in amusement. "Piece of cake," he mock-whispers.

I gasp in disbelief. That reasoning is only half true! "I can't believe you would say that! We love you, Cam! Now move that cute little tush from your bed into the front seat of your ca—What a dick! That son of a bitch hung up on me again!"

Ferris snatches the phone from my grasp, dials Cameron's number and puts it to his ear. "You're not dying. You just can't think of anything good to do." Then hangs up and stretches an arm behind my head, pulling me into his side.

I punch his midriff, to which he recoils slightly and folds his arms over his middle. "Not on your life, Bueller."

* * *

Cameron finally arrives fifteen minutes after receiving another pestering phone call from Ferris and I. The tires of his car screech noisily on the mended flagstone as he pulls into the drive edging the house. The automobile steadies in front of the steps and quietly purls until Cameron (forcibly and violently) kills the engine. Damn, his car really is a piece of shit.

"We should greet him at the door," Ferris says, righting his tie. "Be good friends, ya know? He is _sick_ after all."

I filch a wedge of pancake from my fork and shoot Ferris the most heavy, earnest look I can manage. "The little shit made it this far without help. He'll be just fine to open the door by hims—CAM!" I run for the door and pitch myself into Cameron (who seems to have seen this coming and already has his arms raised for me).

I may be extremely mean to my boys all the time, but they know that I love them to death.

"Wend—oof!" he grunts, trying to righten my bulging anatomy in his arms. "Geez, the plate doesn't ever leave the hand, does it?"

I look down at my hands: plate full of pancakes in one, fork moistened with saliva in the other. Cameron is on the receiving end of a sharp, yet canny grin and I place the fork down atop the tower of mangled pancake scraps. "Never has, never will." Then I snake an arm behind him and squeeze his butt.

All at the same time, an acute shriek punctures the air and Cameron's hands fly to his backside. I swear to all that is holy and sane and mighty, I have never seen the boy jump so high in his entire life. His eyes widen to saucers and his cheeks redden to fire brick, all the while, Ferris is crooked and bent over in laughter. Like I said, easy target.

Cameron's eyes darken for a moment before he grabs the plate from my hand and dumps everything into the garbage can. I gasp, "Asshole!" He hit me right where it hurts: my empty stomach. I'm blistering with rage, but even I have to admit, it's awesome payback.

He brushes past me to the front door, his hand seemingly scalding on the knob. "I'm leaving. You guys only called to piss me off." Cameron's not gonna leave. He's a bullshit liar and even he knows it.

"Okay, bye!" I say, at the same time Ferris bellows, "Wait!"

"Let him leave if he wants to," I reply. "Bye, sourpuss!"

"Wendy," Ferris warns in a cautionary tone. "Don't get bent out of shape over spilled _pancakes_—Cameron, get back in here."

Cameron rolls his eyes at the door, now hanging ajar on the hinge. He closes it and meets Ferris at the telephone in the kitchen where I have my elbows leaning on the edge of the marmoreal island in the center. Cameron glares in my direction while I flash my winning smile and wink at his slightly downturned lips.

"We need to make a phone call to Rooney. So," Ferris gestures to the both of us with his upturned hands. "Apologize to each other."

"What is there to apologize for?" I ask, shrugging. "Cam has a nice butt and my hand was just showing its appreciation."

"Oh, cut it out, Wendy!" Cameron says.

I laugh, "Well, you'll have to get used to it. That fine backside of yours is gonna be mine when we get married."

He pales to a floral white and quickly reaches for the telephone on the wall. "Rooney should be in his office right now..." he mutters, punching in the phone number to Edward Rooney's office.

Ah, Edward Rooney. The man is a gem. No shit. He's crazy nice to me. Although, I know it's only because my father works in the next corridor over and would surely hand Mr. Rooney's ass to him if he was anything but courteous to me. Everyone once in a while, Mr. Rooney will call me down to his office just to have a friendly chat to see how I'm faring in my classes. He always exalts my grades and gasses me up with hopes of being the valedictorian of my graduating class.

Of course, he knows that I'm best friends with Ferris Bueller and Cameron Frye. When something is amiss in the school and shithead Bueller gets called down to Rooney's office, he calls me as his witness to testify on his behalf. My personal favorite excuse is "Ferris, Cameron and I had a movie date last night at my house when (said incident) occurred." When I use that one, I get to explain an entire movie premise rather than explaining the Declaration of Independence or mathematical growth models. Sounds gross, but I'd rather sit with Ed Rooney in his office for an hour and a half than fall asleep, dribbling over my text book in economics.

By the time I'm out of my own thoughts, Ferris has already filled Cameron in on the plan. The first part of this plan involved me calling the school nurse and telling her that Sloane Peterson's grandmother had passed. Now, I'm all for getting the pretty little brunette out of school to hang out with us, but what I don't condone is the whole 'grandma-had-a-heart-attack-at-the-wheel'. It's because of Ferris' genius ideas that I end up getting severely bitten by karma.

Cameron pulls his jersey over his head and sets it down on the marmoreal island. I take it before he can object and tug it down over my breasts and around my body. It fits like a dress because Cameron is a whole foot taller than me.

He rolls his eyes and draws his serious face. "This is George Peterson," he says in a voice ten thousand octaves higher than his own. "Ed, this is George Peterson." A pause. "Well, we've had a bit of bad luck." Another pause. "Yeah, it's been a tough morning. We've got a lot of family business and if you wouldn't mind excusing Sloane, I'd appreciate it." Cameron gulps and his eyes widen as he scratches the nape of his neck nervously. "Ed, I'm sorry. Did you say you wanted to see a body?"

"What the hell is he saying?" I ask.

I hadn't realized until now, but Ferris is gone. Probably to another phone to call the office.

Cameron puts a hand over the mouthpiece and shakes his head in disbelief. "He wants to see a body. A damn body! Can you believe it?" he half-shouts, half-whispers. He puts the receiver back to his ear and clears his throat. "Oh, uh, no. My wife's mother." I guess Mr. Rooney says some whacked shit because Cameron's jaw unhinges in disbelief.

I rush over to the telephone and listen in with Cameron, catching a snippet of Rooney rudely reeling off. "—you can come down here and smooch my big, old, white butt. Pucker up, Buttercup...what?" Then he puts the line on hold for a moment before returning more abashed and solemn than before. "Mr. Peterson, I think I owe you an apology."

Cameron lightly shoves me away from the telephone's receiver and presses the mouthpiece to his face. "I should say you do," Cameron replies, back to his strange voice. "Well, I think you should be sorry for Christ's sake! A family member dies and you insult me! What the hell is the matter with you anyway?" A pause. "Well, pardon my French, but you're an asshole! Asshole!" Another pause. "This isn't over yet, buster. Do you read me?" Another pause. "Call me sir, goddamnit!"

Aggression sure is attractive on Cameron Frye. I fan my face with my hand and point to him. "So hot for you," I whisper, smirking and winking at him again.

That air of malaise is back again as he turns away from me and shouts into the mouthpiece. "That's better. You mind your P's and Q's, buster, and remember who you're dealing with."

Ferris glides across the linoleum, coming to a stop and fixing his tie. "Bueller, Ferris Bueller."

"Yawn," I say, rolling my eyes.

Ferris waves me off like a foul scent in the air.

"Now, I'm scared. What if he recognizes my voice?" Cameron asks, covering the mouthpiece and receiver with his palms.

"Impossible, you're doing great," answers Ferris, absentmindedly adjusting his cuff links.

Cameron smiles, putting the phone back up to his face. "Rooney! Rooney, calm down!" A pause. "I don't have all day to bark at you, so I'm going to make this short and sweet. I want my daughter out in front of the school in ten minutes. By herself. I don't want anyone around—" Ferris shakes his head and smacks Cameron on the arm, who covers the receiver and mouthpiece. "What?"

"Out in front by herself? It's too suspicious! He'll think something's up. Cover it."

Cameron appears panic-stricken in his white tee shirt and suspenders. He grits his teeth nervously and holds the phone out towards Ferris. "You do it!"

Already angry, Ferris waves his arms and points to Cameron. "Talk!" he orders.

"You!"

"Talk!"

"You!"

"Talk!"

"Come on!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" I say, throwing my hands up. I gather the greatest rasp in my voice and snatch the phone from Cameron. "Is this Edward Rooney?"

"Yes, yes," he replies. Christ, he sounds more unnerved than Cameron. How is that possible? "Is this Mrs. Peterson?"

A short sniffle. "This is she."

"Mrs. Peterson, I—I know that you've heard of my...outburst. And, I am so, so, _so _sorry."

"You should be!" I shriek. "Is your mother still alive, Mr. Rooney?"

"Uh, y—yes, alive and very well."

"I'm glad, I pray for her health. But, how would you feel if I asked you to conga, waltz and tango her dead body over to my house?"

"I'd feel—"

"You'd feel angry and offended! Right? Angry and offended and hurt and—" I let out a pained wail and sob violently into the mouthpiece, my own mock weeping crunching in the receiver. I look at Cameron and gesture him to the telephone with my head, never letting go of my lost composure for one moment.

Cameron takes the phone from my hand. "I think that's enough, dear," he says, his slightly guttural voice losing its throatiness. "Let go of the phone, honey."

"That bastard! How dare he?" I shout, mock weeping and walking over to Ferris' fridge to check for juice boxes. No luck. All I find is an opened carton of carrot juice with the lapels folded and creased against the sides.

Cameron clears his throat and puts his mouth to the phone again. "Look what you've done, Rooney. You've angered me and upset my wife. She's in tears and _wailing_ for Christ's sake!"

I think that's my cue for another ear-piercing shriek. I grip the marble island and release the most pointed, pained scream I can manage and pretend to dissolve in my own tears when all I really want is a damn juice box.

"I've changed my mind! I want you out in front of the school with her! I'd like to have a few words with you, by God!"

Ferris slaps Cameron in the face and the phone jumps out of his pining hands. He winces and the telephone cracks against the linoleum tiling of the kitchen floor. Both boys scramble to reach the phone, but it is Cameron who snatches it and clears his throat against the mouthpiece. "On second though, I don't have time to talk. We'll get together soon and have lunch!"

Ferris kicks Cameron in the butt just as the phone is hung on the wall. He rubs his backside and narrows his eyes at Ferris. "Why'd you kick me?"

"Where's your brain?"

"Why'd you kick me?"

"Where's your brain?"

"Where are the damn juice boxes?" I mutter, positioned with my knees braced on the counter, pillaging the cabinets.

"Why'd you kick me?"

"Where's your brain?"

"I asked you first."

Ferris sighs, "How can we pick up Sloane if Rooney is there with her?"

By now, I've settled for a bottle of lukewarm soda pop. "Ferris _has_ got a point," I say, pointing the neck of the bottle at Ferris.

"Thank you!"

Cameron shoots both of us a defeated look. "I said for her to be there alone and you freaked!"

"Oh," I drawl, leveling the collar of the bottle in Cameron's direction. "Cam's got a point too."

"Hey!"

I put my hands up defensively. "I calls 'em like I sees 'em."

Ferris slaps his forehead. "My, God, you're so stupid!"

"Remember who you're talking to, Bueller," I warn, grip tightening on the bottle.

He rolls his eyes at me. "Not you!" Ferris paces the kitchen floor with his hand against his forehead. I find amusement in his nervous stature; I can even hear the anxiety in the clacking of his loafers. "I didn't hit you, I lightly slapped you."

"You hit me," Cameron replies. It sounds a bit childish. If I was Cameron Frye, I would've put an end to Ferris Bueller forever. "Don't ask me to participate in your stupid crap if you don't like the way I do it!" Ferris seems incredulous at the moment, as if he's contemplating slapping Cameron again. Cameron sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "You make me get out of bed, you make me come over here—" Goddamnit, Ferris. Why'd you get him so riled up? "You make me make a phony phone call to Edward Rooney?" he asks. "That man could squash my nuts into oblivion. And—and—and then, and then, you deliberately hurt my feelings."

"I didn't deliberately hurt your feelings," replies Ferris.

"Oh, really?"

"Really, really. No, I didn't."

I thought shrapnel only came out of his ass, but the way that he glares at Ferris leads me to believe otherwise. Even I have to scoot further down the counter because if looks could kill, Ferris Bueller would surely be lying with Sloane's grandmother right now.

"Okay," Cameron says, starting on his way out of the kitchen. I don't realize that I'm still wearing his jersey until he reaches the den.

"Where are you going? What are you doing?"

"Bye, Wendy. Ferris, see you later, pal. I'm going home, have a nice life."

I shoot Ferris a fierce glare and gesture to Cameron with my bottle. "Fix it!" I whisper, my tone almost acidic.

"Cameron, wait a minute! Cameron!" Cameron turns around, stopped at the aperture in the kitchen. "I didn't mean to lose my temper, I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."

"You serious?"

"Yeah." He pushes a mug of some swarthy fluid across the island to Cameron, who grateful takes a pull from the ceramic cup. Ah, my boys. Those two can never be mad at each other for more than ten minutes. I, on the other hand, have no problem holding malice in my heart for an eternity and than some. "You did screw up, though. Right?" God, Ferris, shut the hell up. "Not that it was completely your fault. Although, Wendy did bring the shovel to dig you out of that hole."

I throw my head back and cast my arms into the air. "Wendy, with the assist!"

"To fix the situation, I'm going to have to ask you for a favor..."


	3. Chapter 3

**So sorry! I was busy busy busy with college stuff. So far, I've gotten into 7 of my 9 schools! Just waiting to here from 2 more. Anyway, I realized that I lose interest in stories very quickly and that's what is happening here. I'm trying so hard to continue this story, but I have no drive. So, you have been forewarned that this story is very likely to be discontinued. **

* * *

"The Ferrari GT California."

The glass doors of Cameron's garage fold into the frame, a steady hum sounding before a sharp click and a thump as the glass settles in its opened position. Ferris, Cameron and I gaze upon the beauty that is the scarlet red Ferrari GT California. Why someone would own such a fucking awesome car and not drive it is miles and light years beyond my comprehension. If it were mine, I would pull up in the school parking lot every morning with the most insolent, smug grin on my face. But, alas, I have to settle for my piece of crap, duct-taped 1974 Volkswagen Rabbit. Runs like a gem, but is one hell of an eyesore.

"Less than one hundred were made," Cameron says.

Wow, I forgot that him and Ferris were even here. Suppose I got lost in a daydream where I'm riding in the Ferrari with one hand on the wheel and the wind running through my hair like gentle, slow-moving fingers. Ferris can be there, and Cameron too. My only condition is that Ferris' mouth has to be shut with sutures or Cameron has to sit in the passenger seat because Ferris talks a lot during car rides and I would surely pull the car over to kick him out into desolate wasteland.

Cameron's eyes dull for a moment. "My father spent three years restoring this car."

Ha. Some father. I've met the guy all of five times in the last seven years that I've known Cameron. Each time, he's glowering at me through the lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses or impolitely greeting me on his way out of the door. Most times, I say nothing and brush it off like a normal person, but one time, I did call out some coarse language behind him (much to Cameron's dismay and constant protests to silence me). To this day, I'm still not sure if he heard me.

Cameron's mother is a different novel entirely. She's the sweetest woman that you'll ever meet, but she's always on her way to somewhere that isn't home. It's a shame, kind of. I've met her plenty of times in seven years because she actually loves me. Like, fierce, fiery, daughterly affection. I think it's because, secretly, she's always wanted a girl. So, I'm like her little million-shades-of-brown-haired dream come true. She thinks that Cameron and I should get married too, to which I always stretch my arm around the length of her angular shoulders and say "I like the way you think, Marie," and smile at a folly red Cameron. When she _is_ around, she's always making me tea and cucumber sandwiches with this savory yet sweet dressing dabbed in the middle. They're wonderful. I think I'd have one hand on the wheel and one hand holding a server with a mountain of Mrs. Frye's cucumber sandwiches piled atop one another in my daydream.

"It is his love. It is his passion."

Shit, Cameron, you talk too much. Exit stage left out of my daydream, thank you.

"It is his fault he didn't lock the garage," Ferris says, starting in a course for the red beauty.

Cameron, dumbfounded, looks at Ferris with slightly glossy, rallied eyes. "Ferris, what are you talking about? My father loves this car more than life itself." True. His father would rather spend time catering to the Ferrari's bullshit needs than spend time with Cameron.

Ferris grunts, "A man with such priorities doesn't deserve such a fine automobile."

True. True.

"No. Apparently you don't understand. He never drives it, he just rubs it with a diaper." Like I said, for its bullshit needs.

"I'm gonna have to go with our favorite, resident hypochondriac on this one, Ferris," I say, earning a pointed, fixed glare from Cameron. "Love ya, Cam." I stand on the tips of my toes and press a quick kiss to his cheek before he can object. A light blush flourishes across his cheeks as if dusted gently on his skin.

Ferris rolls his eyes and heaves a long sigh. "C'mon! You two are no fun!"

"I'm a house party full of fun, Ferris Bueller. It's just that I'd hate to take this car out for a joyride, fuck it up, then have Larry Frye run me over with whatever remains of this beauty," I reply, walking up to the Ferrari and moving my hand towards the vast red plane as if to touch it. But the thought of Cameron's father almost, actually... _completely_ frightens me, so I recoil my hand and hold my fingers as if I have been burned.

"Lawrence Frye," corrects Cameron.

"Larry, Lacy, Latimer, whatever. Same thing. He's never actually introduced himself to me, so I don't care."

Cameron disregards me like always and turns back to face Ferris, who has just finished running his finger along the extent of the vehicle. "Remember how insane he went when I broke my retainer? C'mon," he says, stuttering slightly. "That was a piece of plastic. This is a Ferrari."

"We can't pick up Sloane in your car," Ferris answers, gesturing toward Cameron's car in the drive. "Mr. Rooney would never believe Mr. Peterson drives that piece of shit.

"Oh," I drawl jeeringly, covering my mouth with one hand. "Need ice for that burn?" Cameron shoots me a quick, irritated look. "Hey," I say, my hands shooting up defensively. "He said it!" The look is a bit more acute this time around and a scowl locks his jaw into place. "Are you glaring at me? Seriously, I can't see your eyebrows through that hair."

Ferris is now on the receiving end of his scowl. "It's not a piece of shit." Cameron stands next to me and wipes a small smudge off of the car with saliva and the pad of his thumb.

"It is." A beat and another glare. "Don't worry, I don't even have a piece of shit. I have to envy yours."

"What about my piece of shit?"

"You can't even _call_ that thing a piece of shit, that's selfish."

I lightly slap Cameron on his bicep and point at him. "I told you! Shittier tenfold!"

Ferris pats Cameron on the shoulder and looks into his eyes. "I'm sorry, there's nothing else we can do." He turns away from Cameron and braces himself against the car door.

"He knows the mileage."

"He doesn't trust you?"

Cameron grunts, an apathetic grin pulling at his lips. "Never has, never will."

Ferris slings his arm around Cameron's shoulder. "This is real simple. Whatever miles we put on, we'll take off. We'll drive home backwards."

I would smack the back of his head, but I fear I might damage the only brain cells he has left. He's an asshole and irritates me to my wit's end, but, contrary to popular belief and my own word of mouth, he's my friend and I love the guy. So, I can't let that happen. "How did you even make it to the twelfth grade, Ferris?" Well, I didn't say that I wasn't going to insult him. Those won't harm his brain cells. If they did, Ferris Bueller would be Ferris Broccoli, sitting in the hospital as a vegetable inside his own head or something.

"No, no, Ferris. Forget it. I'm putting my foot down." Ferris hops into the car, plopping his bottom down in the driver's seat. He revs the engine and relishes in its smooth, low rumble of twelve roaring cylinders, shifting the gear into drive. I step back into Cameron's chest to avoid getting my delicate little toes ran over. "How about we rent a nice Cadillac? My treat!" Ferris has already pulled out of the garage and out of view. "We could call a limo! A nice stretch job with a TV and a bar!"

The Ferrari backs into view again with Ferris waving us over. "You guys coming or what?"

Cameron and I share a look before heading for the car.

"Forgive me Mother Halifax, for I have sinned..." I say, hopping into the car with Cameron's help.

* * *

God, damn Ferris Bueller to the profoundness of Hell wearing a combustible rayon sweater.

I shift beneath the car's collapsed covering into an equally as uncomfortable spot over a slightly hard, risen plane. I can tell that Cameron is uneasy in his Red Wings jersey, his face completely turned away from mine and facing the small opening slit in the cover. This situation must be extremely awkward for him considering that he doesn't really like being this close to girls. Even if this Ferrari came equipped with five seats, Ferris would have surely stuck us together in the trunk. Which is why I hate him.

Boy oh boy, it sure is hot under here. This must be really bad for Cameron. I mean, it may be an extremely awkward and tight squeeze, but this is actually kinda sorta almost great for me. You see, I will never let anyone know this, but I've actually kinda sorta almost got an enormous, completely juvenile school girl crush on, yes, goofy, awkward, lanky Cameron Frye.

Having trouble understanding? Me too. Confusion has tickled me some damn resonant shade of bright pink for the last seven yea—Shit. I wasn't supposed to let that part slip. Well, now that you know, yes, seven long, grueling years of secretly hitting on him and seven years of him being a paranoid, unreactive lump of coal. I mean, why else would I be so touchy-feely with the boy? You think anyone would be all over Cameron if they didn't have feelings for him? Actually... don't answer that question.

"Uh, Wen? Your hand."

"Maybe it's intentional."

"Wen," Cameron says in a cautionary tone.

"Fine."

I move my hand from his like told and frown. See what I mean? Always trying and always failing. Seriously, Cameron Frye is the most oblivious, confused boy in the entire universe. But, I suppose I can't blame it all on him. If I didn't joke with him so much about marriage and stupid stuff, he might actually respond to my incessant advances.

The car stops short and I almost roll out from beneath the collapsed covering, but I bundle a wad of Cameron's rumpled jersey in my fist. This stops me from rolling out, but somehow, someway, pulls Cameron's head down into my throat, crushing my windpipe. I frantically swat my hands on his head, his chest and his arms, trying to push him from me.

"Shit!" he whispers, moving to fix his position. "I'm so sorry, Wen!" Cameron says once he manages to get off of me.

"My—fault—I—pull—pulled you—down," I weaze. "I hate—hate—Ferris." I finally right myself, struggling to catch my breath and recover from my crumpled windpipe.

Cameron chuckles quietly, "Doesn't everyone?"

"I heard that," Ferris says. He opens the door and exits the car, walking to the opposite side of the vehicle to wait for Sloane.

That means Cameron and I are alone. Alone with approximately one minute and fifteen seconds. Alone in a place where he can't run away for fear of punishment from Rooney for cutting class. Alone in a place where he can't avoid me. This is actually the perfect moment. God, I take back what I said about Ferris. He can have a little spot beside you on a gilded rostrum where angels are nice and feed him perfectly ripe fruits.

"Well, this is awkward," Cameron drawls.

"It's only awkward when you make it awkward," I sing-song. Our positions are both physically uncomfortable, so we shift so that we're leaning on our hands and knees facing each other. That's worse. I find that Cameron is absolutely right, now this is awkward. "It's dark under here. Can't see your handsome face."

"Really, Wen? In here?" he shrieks/whispers/croaks.

"Would you rather it be somewhere else?" The tone of my voice is sly and mischievous, the smirk on my face obscured by the darkness. Honestly though, why do I even try with this boy? "Time, date and place. Your house? My house?" I drawl.

There's the clicking of heels on bitumen and Ferris says something to Sloane that I can't really hear. That means that Cameron and I will have to come out soon and I will have missed my golden opportunity. This has to be the moment. No chickening out now. Pull on those seasoned big girl pants and just go for it.

Swiftly, I lean forward and press my lips to Cameron's. Damn. Now that our mouths are touching, I realize that I probably should have chickened out when I pushed halfway in. I can feel him tense around his mouth and mine, uncomfortably taking in that tempest of malaise which returns stronger and louder than before. I retract slowly, fearing a quick withdrawal will make him think that what I've done was a mistake.

He doesn't say anything. I can see his jaw unhinge slightly, mouth hanging agape in surprise. Seven years of waiting and that's all I get from him? Would've been better off kissing a horse or _Ferris Bueller _for fuck's sake, at least they'd react.

Both doors open and slam shut. "Hi, Cameron, Wendy. Are you comfortable back there?"

"H—hi, Sloane," Cameron stutters. I can actually see his wide eyes through the dissipating darkness. "No."

I shrug nonchalantly. "I'm great, Sloane. Thanks for asking." I smile and look to Cameron, knowing that he can see me now that the car has started to move and the vehicle's collapsed covering flaps in the wind. I'm trying to maintain my composure, but my head is actually spinning.


	4. Chapter 4

**Surprised? So am I, believe me. I guess I hadn't realized how many people actually liked this story. I appreciate the reviews and hope that they'll continue to come even when I feel like continuing this story was a bad idea. Also, feel free to offer suggestions or minor scenarios. I'm sticking to the plot line, but I'll see if I can work something into the story. Anyway, enjoy!**

* * *

With his fifty pound lead foot, Ferris steps on the gas and sends the car rocketing forward onto the road. Cameron, with his jaw still suspended in surprise or stupor (shit, I really hope it's the latter), refuses to look at me. I roll my eyes away from him and adjust my back against the side of the car. The collapsed covering flaps over our heads in the breeze, growing louder as the Ferrari picks up speed. I feel the tremble of all twelve cylinders beneath me like a massage chair suddenly changed to its highest setting.

"It's safe now!" shouts Ferris over the feral winds and unforgiving speeds reached by the car.

I chance a peek in Cameron's direction before pushing upward against the collapsed covering, freeing myself from the darkness of concealment. The wind whips my hair into a tornado of mahogany and burnt sienna. Through the storm of brown, I see that Cameron has finally come out from beneath the leather slip.

"I'm sure that it was safe five minutes ago!" I dig into my sling bag with its blackened fringe and pull out a pair of wayfarers, slipping them over my burning eyes. "I was waiting for the signal, jackass!"

"I gave you the signal! I had to make sure that we weren't being followed!"

I scoff, though, it sounds just like another beat of the wind. "This isn't James Bond! We're high school kids, idiot! I think Rooney's got better things to do with his time!"

"Then you obviously don't know Edward Rooney!" Ferris shouts.

"Of course I do! He bought me Chinese take-out once!" I laugh. "I told you, the man _loves_ me!"

Ferris shoots me a glance in the rear view mirror. "Oh, really?" He lifts his sunglasses for a moment to obnoxiously wiggle his eyebrows and wink at me.

I lean forward from my place on the curvature at the back of the Ferrari to slap him on his head. I'm willing to risk the loss of a few of his brain cells for that. "You fucker," I say. "We're no longer on speaking terms."

Sloane giggles, "Don't rough him up too bad, Wendy."

"No promises."

"Hey, Cam?" Ferris shouts, turning slightly in the driver's seat. "Cam? Bud? You all right back there?"

Cameron shakes himself out of his thoughts and looks up to meet the corner of Ferris' eye. "Yeah, I—I'm fine. Why? Do I look okay?"

I look at Cameron because he can't tell what direction my pointed gaze is in. He looks like... how a weird milkshake would look if you mixed too many countering ingredients together. He's an odd combination of flustered, nauseous and washy. Mostly because his skin seems to lack its normally fair tone.

"A little pale. But, other than that, _ya look great, baby_!" Ferris drawls in his best, warbling impression of an Italian, French or Russian accent. Could have been Italian, but I heard the intentional sound of the collection of saliva somewhere in his mouth.

If I didn't know any better, I would say that it looks like Cameron might jump ship. His hands are braced against the brilliant red of the Ferrari, blanched knuckles clutching the shiny metal exterior. His eyes remain trained on the road ahead, or... the top of Sloane's head? I can't really tell through the darkened lenses of my sunglasses.

He looks at me for a moment, I think, hoping that I was looking everywhere but at him. Well, Mr. Cameron Frye, you're out of luck. I look at him and leave a large, creeping smile at the corner of my mouth which, in some weird way, I can still feel his lips on. Oh, those perfect, unresponsive lips of his. I could relish in their fucking dormancy all day long.

Just kidding.

He notes the sparkle of the sun on my glasses and the smirk on my lips, immediately turning to look away. I really, really wish that he would just give it to me straight. Are you okay? Do you like me? Was it okay? Did you like it? The answer to all of those questions probably being a big, fat, blazing 'no'.

"Wen? Wendy? You all right in that screwed up head of yours?"

"What?" I ask, registering his question just as a response tumbles out of my mouth. "Hey!"

Sloane turns around in her seat, running her dainty little fingers through her hair. "Ferris has called your name for a while." She looks at Cameron, then at me again. "Are you sure that the both of you are feeling okay? Ferris could turn around if—"

"No! I'm not turning around for anyone!" shouts Ferris. "Besides, we're already downtown!"

I look up to see that we are, in fact, in downtown Chicago. The buildings are all tall (but, never the same size, I find) and their glass windows glitter in the beating sun. There are people honking their car horns and people talking and people screaming and woman's heels click click clacking on bitumen to cross the road. It's a noisy place to be at 10:30 in the morning. Actually, it's a noisy place to be at any time of the day.

The car jerks to a stop at a traffic light. I fall off the curvature of metal and onto the back of Ferris' seat whereas Cameron just steadies himself with his hands already gripped to the edge of the Ferrari. I smack my forehead against the back of Ferris' head and wilt helplessly on the floor of the car.

"Ow!" howls Ferris.

"Uh," I mutter, drawing out the syllable. Cameron's hand sheepishly reaching out to me in the beacon of light is almost like magic. Gratefully, I take it into my own and use it to pull myself back up to where I was sitting. Using the harder part of the collapsed covering, I fix myself against the inflection at the backseat of the Ferrari.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," I reply, rubbing my head. "But, _shit_, that hurt."

"I can imagine," he chuckles.

"Geez, Wendy! What have you got in that head?" Ferris asks, massaging the crown of his head, Sloane guiding his hand over sore spots.

"A brain! Something you don't have!" I shout, kneading the throbbing pain in my skull. "Learn how to drive a car, Ferris!"

"Calm down, you two," says Sloane. "It was only an accident." The light turns green and Ferris takes off very, very slowly from the car's place in front of the traffic light.

The breeze is gentle-moving against my face. I move my sunglasses to the top of my head, pushing my hair back and out of my face. "Ouch," I mumble, pressing the painful circle on my forehead. "Is it bad?"

Cameron leans in slightly, his eyes thoroughly examining wound. "There's a bump forming." Tentatively—and like he suddenly remembers that I just tried to suck his face off—he puts his hands on my head and presses the good skin around the bump. I don't realize until now that he's actually talking to me and looking at me and touching me.

God. This is awesome.

I roll my eyes. "Great. I'm sure that _that_ looks very pretty, huh?"

"It's fine, Wen. It's really small," he replies.

"You're lying."

"Go ahead and check it out for yourself!"

I don't find a compact mirror in the folds of my sling bag, so I lean into the front seat and tilt the rear view mirror to face me. Ferris angrily swats my mane out of his face, complaining about how he can't see through my "dumb Halifax locks." Sloane bundles tendrils of my hair and makes a mustache across the top of her lip, giggling and turning to Ferris. Her eyebrows knit together and she pulls on the most quizzical, mystified face I have ever seen.

Well, Cameron didn't lie. The bump is at the top of my temple, very red and measures at about the size of a copper penny. It has grown tender, so I grab a wad of hair from behind the sunglasses and drape it down to cover the lump on my forehead. That will have to do until I can get some ice onto it.

Ferris stops softly at the next light, a blessing to me. A car horn sounds from beside us, to which we all look over at two men—actually, not men, downtown boys, I think—in a blue convertible. Both have grins about a mile wide stained on their faces. The one in the passenger seat gives me the okay sign with his hand and winks.

"Can I help you, gentlemen?" asks Ferris.

They chuckle heartily. "Your girl's got a nice ass!" says the one in the driver's seat.

Come again?

"I know," Ferris laughs. "I myself find it quite great. Although, I'm not one for sharing if that's what you were implying." He reaches up jokingly and I quickly catch his hand in my grasp.

"Not on your fucking life, _honey_," I whisper through slightly gritted teeth.

Ferris chuckles and points to me, shaking his head. "Women and their modesty."

"Keep it up, Ferris," I hiss. "I'll show you _modesty_."

I'm thankful for the green light, threatening Ferris with a good clobbering if he doesn't make the right turn onto the next street. Believe it or not, Sloane is actually laughing. She knows that Ferris and I always joke around with each other and nothing will ever, in one million and seven years, happen between us.

When I settle back into my seat beside Cameron, I notice that his face is the color of the Ferrari. Then I come to the realization that my butt has moved about in his face the entire time. Well, I hope he liked it as much as those downtown boys did.

"Ah, here we are!" Ferris pulls the car into a parking garage after a few minutes of mindlessly driving around the downtown area.

"Wrong," Cameron says.

Ferris stops the car, shifts it into park and cuts the engine. "What?"

"Not here," Cameron replies. "We're not leaving the car here."

Sloane and Ferris exit the Ferrari. Ferris holds out his hand for me, I take it and hop over the edge of the car and onto the concrete. I can't even begin to explain how wonderful it feels to be steadied on the unmoving plane of asphalt and not in the car with Ferris driving. Sighing, Cameron helps himself over and out of the red mass.

"Why not?" asks Ferris.

"I want the car home where it belongs," he answers.

"Well, we're already here," I say, hoping to offer some relief. "We survived the ride down. It's not gonna be worth it if we go home now."

Ferris stretches his arm across the length of my shoulder and pulls me in close. "Thanks, Wen. You always have my back."

I punch him hard in the side and glare pointedly through the long, billowing waves covering the lump on my forehead. "You "find it quite great" and "you're not one for sharing"? _Women and their modesty_, Ferris? Ha! More like _men and their density_! You're a prick."

"What? Those guys seemed to find me very entertaining!"

"No! Fucking _Caddyshack _is entertaining. _You _are not."

"Wendy? What's up with you today? Mother Nature reign down her red hand a little too soon?"

I scowl, narrowing my eyes to cautious slits. That may have been funny if it wasn't true. "_Next time_, trying standing up for your best friend rather than exploiting me like I'm your little bitch." I'm so angry that I don't even feel Cameron's hands on my arms, pulling me back from a fight with Ferris.

"Oh, dear," whispers Sloane. She grabs me gently by the forearm and leads me away from the boys and a brewing argument. Her hands find my face and she brushes away a stray strand of ochre with her dainty fingers. "Are you feeling well, Wendy? I'm worried about you."

"Do you see how he treats me, Sloane. I'm not a piece of meat!"

"It'll be all right, Wen."

I scoff, "Yeah. It'll be all right until it's you, Sloane." Her eyes soften slightly and I realize that getting angry with her isn't going to help anything or anyone. I roll my eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm fine, Sloane. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure? We could always ditch the boys and make a girls day out of this..." she teases.

It sounds tempting. The Lord knows that I am in need of a girl's day out. Shopping, eating, getting our hair done at some fancy place that will have one person painting your fingernails while the other massages your feet and someone else does your toenails... Actually, does a place like that even exist?

"No, it's okay. I'm okay."

Just a little lovestruck.

"Promise?"

"Pinky."

She raises an eyebrow suspiciously. I quickly kiss her forehead and it's almost as if I have rid her of any and all misgivings. Sloane is a great friend. She's very easy-going and tender with a gentility that I am not ashamed to admit that I furiously envy. Her being a year younger doesn't even take away from her knowledge of life and love. I quickly took to her when her and Ferris began dating. Although, I still question her taste in men.

"Come on, ladies," says Ferris. He grabs Sloane's hand and gives it a gentle tug.

"Not yet," she says, gesturing toward me with her empty hand.

Ferris heaves a sigh and looks at me. "I'm sorry. Okay? I know that you hate when people do that kind of stuff." I cross my arms over my chest and tightly purse my lips. "I was only kidding. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

"And Wendy?"

"What the hell do you mean _and Wendy_?" I ask.

Sloane pulls on a serious face and gestures back to Ferris.

"I'll have an invisible apology letter sent to your house by 7:40 tomorrow."

"Wen," Sloane says, her tone cautionary.

I sigh, uncrossing my arms. "I'm sorry." It almost pains me to say it back to him. When I know that I've wronged someone, I'll apologize. But, what have I got to be sorry for? All I did was call him some names, nothing out of the ordinary to see here. "I didn't mean it when I called you boring and stupid." The apology sounds so trivial and stale, but it seems to please Sloane so I really don't care.

"Thank you," he replies, smiling with his entire dentition.

"Can we get going now?" I ask, already annoyed. I pull the wayfarers onto my eyes even though there is no sunlight in the parking garage and run a hand through my hair. I notice everyone looking at me with leery eyes. "What?"

"She's pissed," says Ferris.

"No, I'm annoyed." I wave off everyone's concern (or fear) and roll my eyes. "Can we just get out of here, please? I'm done arguing."

"Fine by me." Ferris shrugs nonchalantly and whisks Sloane away from the parking garage.

Cameron and I lag a few steps behind the happy couple. I admire the tall buildings all around and excuse myself as I nearly collide with a short woman and a stroller, no baby though. Hm, I wonder where she's going. I wonder where all of these people are going. Everywhere but home, I'll bet, like Cameron's mom, Marie. Then this sudden wave of nausea washes over me like a weird, uncomfortable, suffocating sea swell.

"Hey, Wen?"

"Yeah?"

"You sure you're all right?"

"You're great, Cam, but you worry too much."

Silence. Probably shouldn't have said that.

"You think the car's all right?"

"I think the car's fine, Cam."

He shoves his hands into his pockets and pulls on that wary, worried, beautiful Cameron Frye face of his. You know, the one where his features all wipe away like pages ripped from an easel. His brow dips ever so slightly over his eyes and sometimes he'll even run a hand through his hair. God, how I love that.

We walk side-by-side and it's tempting to slide my hand into his. I almost do, but instead, I push my hands into my own pockets and finger a mound of lint attached to the stitching.

"You—you're sure about that?" He's looking down at his shoes and his hair falls into his eyes.

"Huh?" I ask, ripped from my train of thought.

"The car. You're sure that it's safe?"

"Positive."

Wendy (Louise) Halifax: Fat-assed, irritable, 18-years-old, friend-zoned by a Ferrari.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey! As you have probably figured out, I have decided to continue this story! Thank you so much to every single reviewer! You are all really dedicated to this story, so I wanted to give you all another chapter before the year ends in my time zone! Cheers to a happy happy new year for everyone!**

* * *

"This is the world's tallest building," says Ferris.

I bag my wayfarers and shove my hands into the pockets of my wine red shorts. Standing beside Cameron on the top floor of this building, I feel tiny. But, a one foot difference in our heights means absolutely nothing while on the observation deck of a 1451-foot building. Thinking about it now, I feel very tiny, very insecure and very nauseated; as if the world could swallow me up in one casual gulp of flat white and a soggy blueberry scone.

As if by reflex, I inch closer to Cameron. He doesn't seem to notice the proximity of our bodies, or, anyone on the entire observation deck for that matter. His hands tremble in the slightest and his skin looks white and washy again, an almost noticeable green tint running along his jaw line. I find it appropriate to pat the back of his hand as a general gesture of comfort—or to stop him from vomiting on himself—to lighten his malaise. I'm surprised when he immediately covers my entire hand with his. Reflex, I figure.

"I don't feel too good," he says.

I can tell. His hands are cold and clammy in mine.

"You don't look too good, bud," I reply. Cameron's head turns on its slow, robotic swivel to face me. "I didn't mean it like that. You'd look great if not for that green around your gills..."

For some reason, his eyes never leave mine. Normally, I'd be ecstatic. What? Beautiful Cameron Frye eyes making contact with mine? Don't tell me you're not blushing while you think about it. But, they're empty, boring into my face with their nullity. I can't tell if he's preoccupied with his thoughts. I can't tell if he's scared. I can't tell if he hates being here. I can't tell if my hair just looks really weird. But, they're unsettling. I wish that he'd stop staring at me long enough for me to look away from his eyes without it lapsing into some sort of clumsy moment.

I pantomime the chain width of a zipper on my lips, tugging the pull tab to completely close my mouth. I twist off at the end and pocket the imaginary key next to the mounds of rolled lint in my shorts. Cameron cracks a shadow of a smile. Shit, it's better than those creepy, bottomless eyes he was giving me.

"Here, climb up on this," Ferris calls behind him. Ferris, along with Sloane, climbs the risen edge along the window, holding the handrail for support. "Come on, everybody." He motions toward the window with an upturned palm. "Cam, Wendy, come on!"

Hesitantly, I follow Cameron to the large windows. He mounts the ledge beside Sloane and clucking-chicken Wendy almost backs out, quietly backpedaling away from my friends on my toes. Ferris turns back and gives me a cautionary look, motioning toward the rim with his head. Sighing, I quickly climb up next to Cameron and steady myself with the railing.

"Okay, now that all of our beautiful baby chicks have hatched—" Ferris says, shooting me a disappointed look.

I look down at my hands braced against the railing. "Bock, bock," I mutter.

"—lean forward against the glass, like this."

We all mimic Ferris' movement. I put my forehead against the cool glass of the window, staring down at all the busy busy people bustling about the streets below. They all look so tiny, so much more tinier than Sloane or I, so much more _tinier_ than I feel. My stomach churns like a washing machine, bucking against my insides and bubbling white-hot pain through my midsection. An acidic taste arises in my mouth and I have to hold the back of my hand against my lips to stop from vomiting. Cameron would definitely have something to say about my filthy shit-lips then.

"Oh my God!" Cameron whispers.

"Isn't that great?" asks Ferris. Shut it, Ferris. My inner voice coaxing me away from regurgitation is the only thing keeping me calm at the moment and Ferris is ruining it for me. I'd really hate to see those pancakes from breakfast come back up in front of my friends and a whole bunch of strangers.

"The city looks so peaceful from up here," remarks Sloane.

I think I witness a purse snatching. Some peaceful city.

"Anything is peaceful from one thousand three hundred and fifty-three feet."

I squish a group of people between my thumb and pointer finger. "Everyone looks like ants."

There's a short, almost graceful silence shared between the four of us. Ferris looks like he's counting skyscrapers or something, his brow furrowed in concentration. Sloane stares at the world below like it's a different world entirely, taking in the people, the roads, the cars and the buildings with new-found adoration. I'd find it amusing if I wasn't moments away from staining the glass with acrid stomach juice. My mouth suddenly tastes bitter.

Cameron just stares below with the same greenish tint on his face. "I think I see my dad."

Ferris grunts quietly, stepping off of the ledge and pulling Sloane down with him. He walks to my spot and helps me down from the rim of the window and the sky and the world. I'm so happy to be down that I almost jump into his arms and kiss his face, but refrain myself because 1) that would be really gross and 2) it's _Ferris Bueller_ we're talking about.

"We've got a lot to do. Let's go," he demands.

But, Cameron doesn't move. He clutches the railing and watches the ant-people down below. "Shit! The son of a bitch is down there somewhere..." he whispers.

I tap his back. "Cam, we're leaving now." He turns around to look me in the eyes. Great! Here we fucking go again with this! I hold my hand out for him, not wanting to be sucked into those abysmal eyes again. "Come on, Cam. Wouldn't want our friend Ferris to get his pretty panties in a bunch."

He looks down at my hand, then grabs it to step down from the ledge.

I wish I knew what he was thinking.

* * *

The elevator is packed with mothers and fathers and their children. I'm crushed between Ferris and a man with curtained hair and a carded wool shirt pulled over his delicate, stick-like frame. He's a good foot and a half taller than me in his tanker boots, looking down on me from what feels like millions of miles above. All of a sudden, I feel tiny again. I feel in it my toes and my fingers and my stomach.

I think that Ferris feels my discomfort because he switches places with me, much to the dismay and convenience of every other elevator inhabitant. He grins devilishly at me. A familiar grin that I know the meaning of: I'll have to pay him back for this later.

"Shit," I whisper. "You're a selfish bastard."

He chuckles quietly to himself. "Thanks."

The elevator lurches and vomits some strangers onto the 54th floor. Yes, all I can think about is the movement in my stirring, paper-thin, washing machine stomach. The doors close and we continue on our descent in the metal death trap. Okay, so I'm also not too keen on elevator rides either. In short, I hate heights and closed spaces and vicinity and—

"Ferris?"

"Yeah?"

"You're stepping on my foot." I can't even look at him when I say it. I just keep my eyes on the back of some woman's chignon bun and think the happiest thoughts that I can manage. My voice doesn't sound like mine. It's small and mousy and sounds like I'm struggling to hold back a torrent of tears with brickwork eyes.

He moves his foot and continues his conversation with the curtain-haired fellow beside him. They go on about the city and the view and the baseball game supposedly going on in a few hours. His poise and composure make me extremely envious.

The elevator doors ping on the first floor and, with the most elegance I can manage, I begin my exit from the death trap. Cameron and Ferris join the exiting crowd when Sloane yells, "Oh! I can't find my sunglasses! I must have left them at the observation deck!"

"Well, we'll get you a new pair," says Ferris, moving out of the way of other exiting passengers.

"Ferris..."

"Sloane..." he replies in a tone as convincing as hers.

Before I realize what's going on, the doors are closing and the elevator ascends. My eyes widen and I turn to see Sloane beside me, eyes averted toward the control station near the doors. She grins slyly, tapping her feet against the floor and humming to herself. We're the only ones in the elevator.

"Did you just close the doors on Ferris?" I ask, wanting to laugh, but fearing a massive upchuck.

Ping. Sloane hits the 'close doors' button before anyone else can get into the elevator.

"Sloane?"

She turns to me with a smile on her face. Her voice is as sweet as sugar when she opens her mouth to speak. "I think I know why you're acting so funny, Wen."

My eyes widen to saucers. "What?"

"I saw the glimmer of your lip gloss at the corner of his mouth."

"You did?"

She nods. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit! Fucking hell fucking Cameron why the hell didn't you wipe your goddamn mouth off, shithead? God, what a dumbass. If Sloane figured it out, that must mean that Ferris has as well. Because, let's face it, Ferris Bueller knows me like he knows Ed Rooney's bathroom schedule. Sounds weird, but it's when Ferris pulls off most of his tomfoolery.

"I can safely assume that you like him, right?"

Ping. Sloane taps on the 'close doors' button as continuously as she taps her foot on the floor.

"Wait a minute. Am I being interrogated?"

She nods.

"By you?"

She nods.

"In an elevator?"

She nods.

I laugh, then I laugh again, only it's slightly choked. I hold the back of my hand to my forehead and turn around to face the window. A shaky breath pushes past my lips and I steady myself using the railing, trying not to look at the chasm of blue above and the buildings across the street.

"Wen, are you—are you crying?"

I feel for the moisture on my face with one hand. Of course. Of fucking course. "I think so."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you." Sloane puts her fingers on my back and kneads a sharp point in my spine with the heel of her hand.

I shake my head, wiping at my wet eyes. Her palm making circles on my back almost expels the sickness in my stomach. "It's not you, Sloane. It's not you. It's this elevator..." I place my trembling hand back on the railing. "This fucking elevator."

Sloane seems to come to a realization. Her mouth hangs slightly agape, hand poised over it. "Oh, my. You're afraid of heights, aren't you? That's why you—"

"Yes. It's why I'm crying and it's why I get queasy in elevators and it's why I didn't want to go to the observation deck. I'm afraid of heights."

"Oh," Sloane says, worried. "Oh, oh dear." She turns to the control station and presses the button for the first floor.

"Sloane?" I ask. "You had your sunglasses the whole time, didn't you?"

She smiles guiltily and shrugs. "Just wanted answers."

"Yes, I admit it. I like him. Satisfied? Now get me out of here."

* * *

I watch with an almost painful amount of scrutiny as traders, runners and employees dash about the floor in many different colored jackets. Some hold papers, others hold clip boards and pens while the rest seem to scour the floor of grime with their constant shuffling about the tiles. The four of us watch from an observation room above as the flurry of hectic blues and chaotic reds mingle with one another on the floor below us. From here, it looks disorderly and, to be honest, a little frightening. Sometimes, I can't tell if people are screaming at each other out of anger or just because they have to scream to be heard.

Behind me, Cameron imitates the traders on the floor. He looks strangely devoted to his act, using complicated hand signals that he says are called 'arb'—I remember because I was hungry and it made me think of Arby's at the time—and completely loses himself in the process.

Ferris watches from in front of the window, I can tell that he has no idea what's going on at the moment. Sloane sits next to me and I lazily throw my legs onto her lap, adjusting myself in the chair. She laughs and traces patterns on my bare skin, playing with the laces on my shin high boots. It tickles, but I'm so exhausted (and nauseous) from that trip to the top of Sears Tower that I don't even care.

Suddenly, Ferris turns around and leans against the railing before the window. "You want to get married?" he asks.

"Yes. Remember that I like lots of diamonds. Nothing less than 24-carat gold. Size 5. Thanks."

"Not _you_, ya ditz."

"Well, shit, then." I turn around to face Cameron, who is completely tuned out of the conversation. "Lots of diamonds. Nothing less than 24-carat gold. Size 5. Thanks." Then I turn back to Ferris without waiting to see the look on Cameron's face.

"You, _Sloane—_" He makes sure that he looks at me with raised eyebrows as he says it. "You want to get married?" repeats Ferris.

She looks at me and shrugs her shoulders, laughing. "Sure."

"Today?" he asks. "I'm serious."

Sloane looks at him in complete and utter disbelief. "I'm not getting married!"

"Why not? Think about it! Besides being to young," he begins, counting off on his fingers. "Having no place to live, you being the only cheerleader with a husband... Give me one good reason why not."

"I'll give you two reasons: my mother and my father."

I can honestly say that that was something that no one expected to come out of Cameron Frye's mouth. He had been entirely quiet from the moment we all stepped foot into the Chicago Mercantile Exchange, then started fucking _arbing_ to himself like a lunatic. All of a sudden, out of scenic nowhere, at this point in the conversation, he adds his input. Not to mention the damper he's putting on the subject. Although, I must say, it is refreshing to hear his voice again. Selfish of me? Don't care.

"They're married and they hate each other."

I can neither confirm nor deny that notion. Marie is always happy when I'm around—eh, I don't mean to brag or anything—and that asshole Larry Lafayette Lance is never around. He always looks mad to me, even when he's talking to his friends or on a business call. So, maybe they hate each other, maybe they don't.

"So what?" asks Ferris.

"It's like that car," explains Cameron. "He loves the car, he hates his wife."

And secretly, I think he might hate Cameron too. Shit! I didn't say that aloud, did I? I turn to look at Cameron, almost hoping that his face is still stoic like before. What I don't expect is for him to be plucking his cheeks and making water drop noises with bubbles of saliva. Terribly annoying, but at least I didn't actually say anything aloud.

"Thanks," Ferris replies, sounding defeated.

Cameron stands up and brushes off his pants. "Can we please get out of here? This place gives me the creeps."


End file.
